


only forever

by saltytangerine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Blow Jobs, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Boys In Love, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Bucky Barnes, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Sick Character, Smut, Top Steve Rogers, i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-16 16:20:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18695029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltytangerine/pseuds/saltytangerine
Summary: A year in the life of Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers in 1940-1941.The room is small, the apartment isn’t much bigger. They live out of suitcases and boxes, not staying in one place for more than six months at a time, but in a room with no windows, Steve has never felt more at home, squeezed onto a narrow twin bed with his very best friend. Steve’s hands are cold when they close over Bucky’s and his fingers find the spaces between his and as if it is the only thing Bucky’s body knows how to do, he curls his fingers, trapping Steve’s with his.





	1. winter || frostbite

**Author's Note:**

> look who's back again, posting not the fic I promised to post; back at it again with the bottom bucky shit (in chapter 2). This is part of a collection based on a whole year in the life of Steve and Bucky in 1941, split into the four seasons. Takes place shortly after the events of [thin wrists](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18150053?view_full_work=true). 
> 
> Title is from the 1940 Bing Crosby song "Only Forever"
> 
> big thanks to [goandgetthegun](https://twitter.com/goandgetthegun) on twitter, for helping me out when I was struggling with the first part here; I was talking myself around in circles, ALSO, they are pretty much the inspiration for this series and they gave me absolutely fabulous resources when I was thinking about the apartment.

Steve's eyelashes are long, but they don't curl the same way he sees girls lashes do; his fingers are long and delicate but he’s never seen a girl with bruised knuckles like his and he has never met a girl who stops the breath dead in his throat. He tries not to remember when he tried to drown the thoughts of Steve out of his mind and he spends his time walking a tightrope; they fool around sometimes, but they never talk about how good they feel in the afterglow and in the last place they lived, Steve rarely spent all night in bed with him. They have built walls around themselves, deflecting any talk of a relationship between them that is not purely platonic. Those walls are the steepest to climb, however, after Steve has fucked the breath out of Bucky in the nighttime.  
  
This is the last time they'll move, Bucky promises himself. His friend from the docks helped them bring suitcases and boxes up to the fourth floor, with the promise of a bottle of beer the next time they see each other. For two days, he's worked extra shifts and not taken a thing out of the suitcases-- moving is expensive and their deposit was never returned thanks to Bucky’s uncharacteristic burst of temper and his fist in the drywall after receiving a rent increase notice. He contemplated asking if there was any work going in the factories where he first started working, but ships don’t stop coming into harbor just because snow is on the ground.  
  
Bucky agrees to take the smaller bedroom at the other end of the apartment; small and square, it fits a twin bed and a kids sized dresser. His suitcase with clothes in sits on top of the dresser, still buckled shut and there's a small bag at the foot of his bed with his books.  There are no windows in his room and the only thing he did unpack on the day they arrived were blankets and quilts.  
  
“Just take the bigger bedroom, Stevie.” He rests his hand on his shoulder and squeezes lightly, at the same impasse they’ve ended up at since Monday.  
  
“What about you, are you sure don't you want it?” Steve doesn’t pull away from his grip and he doesn't remember why they aren't permanently sharing a bedroom, until suddenly he does. Joe and Frank from Steve's class and their infamous arrest after being caught with trousers down, behind Delia's diner.  
  
“Nah, I don't need the sunlight comin’ and waking me up at five in the summer.” Bucky moves his hand from Steve's shoulder to slide across his shoulder blade to cup the nape of his neck. His skin is soft and he can feel each gentle nub of his vertebrae when he runs his fingers along his spine.  
  
“You gonna help me put the mattress on the bed?”  
  
“Nope, that's all down to you.” He says with a roll of his eyes, going over to where they left the mattress leaning against the wall. He's had Steve in his bed for two nights while they bicker about the sleeping arrangements. The apartment comes with two bedrooms and Steve has the bigger one; his easel Bucky built out of scrap wood in the corner and an old armchair in the other. The limited space means that Bucky pushes the bed frame to the wall, under the fire escape, and when he puts the mattress down, it finally looks like a place to sleep. “Do you want the radio in here or the kitchen?”  
  
“Here's fine.” Steve says, bending down to open one of the boxes. They haven't kept a lot of things, most of the bulky items were given away to the families living in the old block and they made their way through the streets with a flatbed trolley and suitcases and boxes stacked high, rope tied around them to keep them from clattering into the street, soaking the cardboard and canvas with the muddy slush of a Brooklyn January afternoon.  
  
“Let me get your sheets.” He squeezes his upper arm as he goes past him, to the duffel bag in the corner where Steve’s sheets are still folded neatly inside. Steve adjusts the knobs on the radio and in the quiet of their new place, soft music rings through the timber and bounces off the tile and a new warmth leaks in along with the cornets.  
  
“Shit, that's a bitter wind.” He mumbles, one knee on the mattress as he leans over to fold the sheets over. He closes the window and the offending holes in the window frame are plugged with a pair of clean socks. It's an old build and the hinges on the doors squeak loudly, but at least they don't have to share a lavatory like the last place. From his place with his knees on Steve's bed, he can see in to the kitchen, there's a wall that is supposed to divide the kitchen and living room/bedroom space, but where there once was a door, the door frame has been ripped out, and the rooms looks like one. Bucky smooths out the sheet, making sure no wrinkles are left to mark Steve's skin. He could bounce a penny off it when he's done; his memory flitting back to lost snapshots of making his bed with Sarah when he was sick. He takes a blanket from his own bed, when he isn't looking, and lays it over Steve's quilt, tucking the edge under the mattress.

  
  
Snow started to fall again before lunch and by the time Steve finished unpacking his art supplies, Bucky has started to cook dinner, listening to the quiet scratching of Steve’s pencils on paper and the soft brass band playing on the radio. He likes to dance, he’s a natural, letting the music guide him, but Steve doesn’t; happy to sit back and watch him move and when he feels his eyes on him, it feels predatory and hungry.  
  
Sometimes coal is alright; their last place had a window in the kitchen, but with nowhere for the small amount of dust the stove kicks up to escape, Steve's chest protests. It’s still better than wood and Bucky’s half way through reducing the stew when the only noise he fears sounds through the apartment.  
It’s the grayness that frightens him; how Steve’s cheeks turn from pink to gray in almost an instant and how he associates the wheeze with the memory of too many goodbyes said through their childhood. It's like a siren, and immediately he's at action stations, moving the pot off the heat and crouching by Steve, eyes scanning, assessing and something deep inside him tells him what to do, how to manage these specific noises he makes.  
“You're alright--” Bucky pulls him to his bedroom with his arms hooked under Steve’s and opens the window, the glass cold in his grip and when it's open he sits on the bed and pulls Steve on to the bed with him. He sits him in the space between his legs and holds him against his own chest. “--you can breathe, Stevie… Just get some of that clean air, try and follow my breathing.”  
  
He wishes the kitchen door was still there, so he could shut out the smoke. The wheezes always sound like they hurt and Steve's eyes are closed tight, his hands grasping Bucky's thighs as he struggles to get any air in. Every time it happens, he's convinced that it will be the last one, but his stubbornness won't let him go so easily. They can usually tell if an attack will warrant the use of the special cigarettes that they both hate breaking in to. His breath hitches again when he feels a familiar hand on his chest, over the thin shirt, a palm rubbing circles into his aching body. It reminds him of his mother, but with Bucky's chest against his back and his lips pressed against his temple, it feels different.  
The wind blows snow in through the window, dusting it over them, sat as one, leaving snowflakes holding onto Steve's eyelashes. The sweat clings to Steve's forehead in beads and when Bucky kisses his temple, he tastes his salt on his lips. He doesn't let him go, his left arm hooked under his and holding Steve's shoulder back against him so he can't run, and his right hand spread out on the center of his chest. He prays Steve can't feel how hard his own heart beats when he hears those telltale wheezes and when his breathing settles and the northerly wind slows, he closes the window again. Pink starts to come back to replace the gray and when Bucky strokes his hair away from his face, he thinks he looks like one of the paintings from the 1800s, English painters telling tales of Greek legends with straight blond hair and milky skin. When his breathing eases, he’s sleepy and his head lolls back on Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky stays still, letting him rest against him until his thigh cramps from sitting awkwardly. Bucky unbuttons each of the small buttons of Steve's shirt and Steve lets him take it off completely and drop it to the floor. His trousers come off next and not a word is traded as Steve sits between Bucky's legs in only his faded tank top and underwear, chest still heaving now and then.  
  
Neither of them eat dinner and Bucky stores it away for tomorrow; he sits in the armchair in the corner, a book under the right leg to keep its balance, and opens his book while Steve is laying on his side, facing away from him. He reads twenty-three pages, until his eyes hurt, and closes the book and places it beside the radio. Steve's breathing is quiet and it's only nine in the evening and he's out like a light. He pulls the blanket higher over his shoulders and considers climbing in with him for a moment, before deciding against it and regretting it with every single step he takes to his own bedroom.  
  
The stove still gives off the smallest amount of heat; he leaves the door open and when he's finally in bed, he pulls on a sweater and tucks one edge of the blanket under his left side. He keeps his bedroom door open though and if he angles his head just right, he can see Steve's bed from where he lays. Work calls for him in the morning, so while the snow falls and the apartment is quiet, he decides an early night is called for.  


*

  
  
He sleeps soundly; he doesn't wake for the traffic below or the kids playing, but he'll wake for Steve and his clumsy footsteps; always walking around barefoot and unaware of the noises he makes.  
  
“Are you asleep?” Steve stands in the doorway, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and barefoot on the wooden floor.  
  
“I was.” Bucky says, laying on his front as usual, his arms under the pillow. His room has become an icebox, he’s sure, but still, he’s warm and comfortable and as his eyes adjust, he sees Steve’s bare legs from under the blanket.  
  
“I’m cold.”  He shrugs and holds the blanket tight around himself, rubbing his hands together.  
  
“You came to my room at midnight to tell me that?”  
  
“Yeah, and there's hardly any coal left.”  
  
“Fuck.” Bucky mutters under his breath and lifts his head from his pillow to look at Steve, still standing innocently in his doorway. He assumed that on waking, in only his underwear, Steve would’ve put on something else to try to keep warm, but Steve’s self preservation skills have always been debatable.  
  
“D'you wanna get in here?” He offers when Steve doesn't make an effort to move from the doorway. He turns into his side, his back against the wall and lifts up the edge of his blanket, hissing quietly at the cold air hitting him.  
  
“I wanna go in the kitchen and put the stove on.” He goes over and grasps the edge of Bucky's quilt in his small hand and tries to pull it towards the door. The idea is tempting for a moment, but Bucky is sure his heart might break if he hears Steve's staggered breathing and his panicked whimpers for the second time in a day.  
  
“Get in here, I ain't having you hack away all night, punk.” He mumbles, closing his fingers around Steve's wrist, pulling him in close. Steve protests for a moment but with another shiver that runs through him, he quickly gets into the Steve sized space Bucky had left for him. When Steve's beside him, he lets out a quiet yawn and drops the blankets over them both and wraps his arm around Steve's waist. He's cold, something he expected, so he pulls him back against him, and nuzzles his face against his neck.  “You're freezing.”  
  
“'s cold out there.” Steve is a degree away from frostbite, he's sure, and the warmth Bucky supplies him with seeps into him slowly. The feeling in his feet starts to come back and the soft wool of Bucky's sweater is soft on his arms.  
  
“You--” He yawns, bending his knees and gently readjusting Steve so he's laying flush against him, as if he were sitting on his lap. “--can stay here all winter if it keeps up.”  
  
“My bedroom’s bigger.” Steve reaches down and runs his hand along his thigh, feeling where theirs meet, under the blankets.  
  
“Also got that huge ass window.” Bucky’s voice is muffled and Steve can feel his lips moving against the back of his neck, so he tilts his head forward, inviting his touch. Bucky doesn’t miss the hint and for a moment, it feels like they are children again, sharing a bed to save space and share warmth while they wait for Mrs Rogers to come home. His dreams only start when he’s curled up around Steve, he dreams epiphanies and wild inventions when his head rests by Steve’s.  
  
“Bucky.”  
  
“Stevie, go to sleep, please; I'm beggin' you.” He groans, pushing his weight forward against Steve, his chest completely covering his back.  
   
“Yeah, yeah.” He says, relaxing into the bed, Bucky's arms warm around him. He feels Bucky's breathing slow as he starts to fall asleep and he closes a hand over his at his waist. The room is small, the apartment isn’t much bigger. They live out of suitcases and boxes, not staying in one place for more than six months at a time, but in a room with no windows, Steve has never felt more at home, squeezed onto a narrow twin bed with his very best friend. Steve’s hands are cold when they close over Bucky’s and his fingers find the spaces between his and as if it is the only thing Bucky’s body knows how to do, he curls his fingers, trapping Steve’s with his.  
  
“I'm sick of it, Buck. I know we're better now, but, god, all I want of you. I want to come home to only you, I want you to come home to only me.” He pauses, looking over his shoulder, his poor eyesight in the dark something that he frequently forgets about. Bucky doesn’t shift behind him and his grip on his hand does not falter and god knows he needs to finally get the words out before his thoughts swallow him. “I know we can't… Be together like Claudia and Betty, Joe and Frank, but man, I keep thinkin’ to myself how great it would be, no excuse to share the bed every night, no reason needed to want to hold your hand in the evenings.” It’s easier to talk to a sleeping man, he justifies, it’s easier to share his thoughts when they’re asleep, his words serving as the beginning of a good dream, or easily forgotten in the morning when the sun comes up. Steve is honest when he speaks, but he often finds himself guarded, not saying anything at all; having something is better than nothing. “But deep down, I guess I'm scared of you not wanting it too, because it's all I want; I want you to be mine.”  
  
He holds his breath when Bucky lets go of his hand and spreads his fingers out when his palm is resting over his breastbone again and pulls him back against him. A moment passes and when Bucky mumbles something incoherent, he's sure he's asleep and Steve’s chest is clear as they sleep soundlessly while the snow piles up outside.  
  
 

*

  
  
“Steve?” Bucky's lips are soft on his forehead, and like most mornings, Bucky wakes to Steve facing him, his small arm over his waist, their legs tangled under the blankets.  
  
“’m not awake.” He says, turning his body into the contact and sliding his hand up from Bucky's waist to cup the nape of his neck, trying to stop him from moving.  
  
“Stevie, I gotta go to work.” He gently pushes Steve on to his back and climbs over him, smoothing back his hair.  
  
“Mm, I don't wanna, it's too early, pal.” Steve turns his head and finally opens his eyes, resting a hand on Bucky's cheek. His eyelids burn at the thought of keeping them open and Bucky's moved from petting him to kissing his cheek.  
  
“I want to make it work. Like you said last night. I want it real bad.” He leans in closer to Steve's good ear so he doesn't have to raise his voice. He can physically feel his blood pressure rising as his pulse pounds hard in his ears and throat, his mouth dry, terrified of Steve's reaction.  
  
“What are you talkin’ about?” He goes to sit up before he remembers Bucky is on top of him and he considers pushing him away, but Bucky's smiling and his blue eyes are soft and as sleepy as his.  
  
“I’d be yours if you asked.” There's no sunlight in the room, the smallest beams shining in through the tiny kitchen window and through the threadbare curtains in Steve's room, but he can see Bucky and he can see his smile and he can feel his hands on him.  
  
“You were awake?” His eyes widen almost comically wide and for a moment he wonders if he'll stop breathing. Bucky doesn't look angry or upset at anything he said overnight and his hands are at his cheeks, thumbs stroking them gently.  
  
“Pal, you've been waking me up at stupid o'clock since we were babies. I always listen to you; it's some sick response my body's developed-- Steve's talkin’ shit, gotta pay attention.” He says, almost all too fast. Walls they founded in apprehension and fear; no longer strong and fortified, Steve loosened the foundations when he spoke to Bucky in the dead of night and Bucky comes along with a sledgehammer in the morning, bright and cheerful.  
  
“We… We're just two guys, Buck, we shouldn't.” He starts, but Bucky cuts him off with his lips on his and his hand at the side of his neck.  
  
“All we gotta do is not think too much. Just be careful; no more navy boys for you, no more searching for anyone that doesn't remind me of you for me.”  
  
“Do girls feel like this every time they get a new fella?” Steve kisses back, his words maybe lost in Bucky's mouth and his fingers in Bucky's hair. His body is smaller under Bucky, and he enjoys the warmth and weight of him laying over him, trapping him on the small bed.  
  
“How would I know?” Bucky says, his arms around Steve's waist. “I only know that I'm only interested in _you_.”  
  
“Bucky…” He'll pull out all the stops if he needs to, he thinks to himself while tugging on the waistband of Bucky's pants. He’s gone from feeling heavy with sleep to wide awake in less than a minute and the only thing rooting him to this state of consciousness is the thought of what’s under Bucky’s trousers.  
  
“Sweetheart, I gotta go to work, I _can't_. I want to, I _really_ want to.” He pulls away reluctantly and sits on the edge of the bed, feeling Steve follow behind him. “I'll be home soon, I'll bring coal, we can sleep in your bed-- here put this on.” He pulls off the sweater he wore to bed and when Steve grimaces, he finds great pleasure in sticking it over Steve's head anyway, leaving the sleeves and torso of the sweater bunched up around his shoulders.  
  
“You're gonna come home to me?” He asks, pulling the sweater on fully, the sleeves are too long and the hem comes right down to his hips; it smells like Bucky though, and it feels like him too. He lays across the bed, his head now on Bucky’s side of the pillow and as difficult as it is to let Bucky stand and get himself ready for work, while he watches him, he’s never felt more content.  
  
“I don't see anyone else I'm promising myself to.” Bucky’s grin is mischievous and it makes a change from how his lips have been usually down-turned slightly at the corners, when his face is resting. He looks like he might shake what has been looming over them for the past few months off and smile easily again. He layers up and he wears the thickest socks he can find; he still wears the knitted hat that Sarah made him when he was only fourteen, but it covers his ears and that’s enough, he doesn’t tell him that it reminds him of where his heart lies, fully attached to a scrawny blond Irish kid half his size.  
  
He can't wait for him to come home.  
  
  



	2. spring || gillette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's woken by the sound of an April shower. Bucky pulls back the curtains himself and props open the window to smoke, rather than only smoking in the chair. He's still woozy when he moves too quick, but he leans his head against the windowsill and has his arm stuck outside, fat raindrops sometimes landing on his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2! Slightly later than scheduled. What is time??? Endgame skewed my perception of time and I'm surely not an expert on time theory. In all seriousness, I'm going away tomorrow (8th May) but I've scheduled dates for the next two parts to be posted, so don't worry, I WILL finish this. I promise.

 

It wakes him with a start. He feels every muscle in his body tense, bracing itself for a blow-- he doesn’t run away from even the thought of a threat. His eyes are open before he even registers them opening and when his vision clears and the familiar scenery of his bedroom is all he sees, he hears another sneeze from the corner of the room, by the dresser. Morning sunlight has not yet started to fill the room and the space next to him in the bed is empty, but still warm. “Did you just… Sneeze?”

 

“I don't sneeze.” Bucky says, crouched by the dresser, pulling out a pair of socks. As he speaks, he turns his head and clears his throat into the crook of his elbow, aiming his head away from the bed they’ve begun to share.

 

“I think you sneezed.” He rolls onto his front and digs his elbows into the mattress, lifting his head off the pillows. Sleep still nips at his heels and taking advantage of the newly free side of the bed is a the perfect excuse for him to spread himself out.

 

“Leave off, Stevie; it's the dust.”

 

“I don't think I've seen you sick since ‘29.”

 

“I don't get sick-- I gotta pull a double, there should be enough money in the jar when Mr Murphy comes around.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, get out of here, the sun ain't even up and you're tryin’ to start a whole conversation.”

 

“You’re the one who started talking, pal.” He presses a kiss to his temple, gentle and fleeting as he grabs his matchbox from the crate they use as a bedside table.

 

He isn't a morning person and when Bucky rises before him, he wishes he was, so he could enjoy his company a little more. Bucky doesn't wake up in bad moods, he wakes easily and shrugs sleep off without a single protest. He sleeps easily too, as long as he's still, he could fall asleep on a shoestring, but Steve knows that if that shoestring has them both sat on it, he'll sleep even better.

 

**

 

“You got my money this time around, Rogers?” Joseph Murphy isn’t a tall man, nor is he the kindest. Steve heard that he was a boxer when he left Ireland, but now he owns property and rents them out for unfair prices. He isn’t the type of man that Steve could ever see himself befriending.  

 

“Yeah, give me a second—” He leaves the door open and Mr Murphy follows him in to the kitchen. He rummages in the jar, pulling out bills as he counts them. Most of the bills are crumpled and Steve smooths them out in his hands before reluctantly handing them over, along with a handful of coins that he pours into an empty envelope. “Yeah, it’s all here.”

 

“I gotta say, I was expecting your tall friend to answer the door, doesn’t he usually deal with the money?” Mr Murphy counts the bills and Steve grits his teeth at the insinuation that he would short-change his landlord. His trousers are stained and he has the unmistakable scent of cheap beer soaked permeated into his wifebeater.

 

“He’s out workin’.” Steve rolls his eyes and shuts the kitchen window, glad for the opportunity to look away from him.  

 

“What, and you sit at home, play wife? You making supper for him, lad?” He stuffs the money into his pocket and takes one of the bread rolls from the kitchen table. “I’ll see myself out, I’ll be back same time next week.”

 

**

  
  


Bucky only walks home in the spring and summer, when the thought of getting on a trolley is unbearable. The evening air is cool and he could’ve been done working hours ago if he didn’t desperately need the extra money. He walks home with his hands in his pockets, humming a tune that he can’t remember the name of and looking forward to just seeing Steve, drawing at the kitchen table, waiting for him. He’s sneezed a grand total of eight times today and the side of his nose is a little sore from rubbing it with the back of his arm. When they were younger, he could just stay at his parents house; hide the cold out. His father used to joke with a certain amount of bitterness that it was the most he saw of him since meeting Steven Rogers, Bucky told him, after drinking too much, that Steve Rogers kept him better company.

 

Four flights of stairs aren't anything to him, but he doesn't take them two at a time and he holds onto the rail the whole way up. He goes past children playing on the landings and offers one of the girls the apple from his lunch. Low music plays from the apartments that leave their front door ajar and when Bucky reaches the fourth floor, his own door is never locked until they're inside together. He pushes the door and steps inside without announcing himself to the man sat at the table, his back to him. He knows Steve probably can't hear him so he takes his jacket off and hangs out over Steve's, even though in their apartment, they have two pegs. His work boots are heavy and he puts them in their normal place and only when he's shaken the last bit of tension from his shoulders, he goes up to where Steve's sitting and rests a hand on his shoulder, feeling Steve tense up momentarily and when he relaxes, he leans down and slides both arms around his neck, his cheek resting against his.

 

“I paid the rent.” Steve brings his left hand up to squeeze Bucky's forearm, not taking his eyes away from the shading, picking up a new pencil.

 

“Yeah?” Bucky stays leaned over the back of Steve's chair, holding onto him loosely. He likes to watch Steve draw, how lines and shapes become works of art, even his sketches blow him out of the water. Their touch isn't overly affectionate; he stands there, sagged against him, head resting against his.

 

“What do you want to eat?” He asks, turning his head just enough so he can rest his forehead against Bucky's cheekbone. Bucky's razor is dull and he hasn't shaved in a couple of days, something that neither of them is used to seeing, but with the darkness around his chin and cheeks, Steve decides he likes the look, even if his cheeks scratch his thighs.

 

“I ain’t hungry.” Bucky mumbles, pulling away, and as he pats down his pockets, searching for his packet of cigarettes. He covers his mouth with a closed fist and coughs once, twice.

 

“That's a cough now, Buck.” Steve watches him go through the kitchen to his bedroom and pull open the window. He sits heavily on the bed and puts a cigarette between his lips, his eyes closed in defeat at the lack of matches in his pockets.

 

“I ain't sick.” He mutters, looking up at Steve when Steve steps forward to light the cigarette and Bucky's hands close around his until it's lit and he leans back against the wall. He sits opposite him, by the pillows, his feet tucked under himself, glancing out of the window.

 

“I could nurse you.” Steve shrugs and unfastens the straps of his overalls while Bucky leans against the wall, his left arm hanging out the window, smoke from the cigarette trailing upwards in the spring air. He reaches out the window for Bucky's cigarette and takes a small drag for himself and puts it back between his lips. Sometimes it makes him cough and triggers an attack, but if they get the right blend, it soothes him without making him feel like he's on another planet.

 

“I'll get you sick.” He protests, swatting Steve's hand away.

 

“Thought you weren't sick.”

 

“I swear--” He lets his head fall back and lets out a soft huff of defeat, turning his head to cough again, scraping the cherry off on the window ledge and putting the half back in the carton. “I'll sleep in other bed, ok?”

 

“No way, pal, you're gonna need me in the night.”

 

“I'm not kissing you.” He mumbles, turning himself so his head is back by the pillows, his side flush against the wall. His eyes are closed and he feels light as a feather, like he could float right out of Brooklyn and go wherever they keep sick people until they're right again. “I'll just stay here for a while before I go to the other bed.”

  
  


It doesn't feel like a sickness that a fever will chase, and while he's floating, he's happy to stay still, with his eyes closed, even when he feels Steve curl up beside him. His hands are cold under his shirt and his cold palms catch the breath right from his throat, making him cough, head turned into his pillow. “I don't wanna get you sick.”

 

“Mmm.” Steve hums, not letting go, his palm rubbing small circles over his breastbone, just how Bucky has spent much of his childhood, hand over Steve's heart. “I promise I won't get sick.”

 

“Don't make promises you can't keep, champ.” Bucky shivers and gently pushes Steve's arm off, to sit up. The room is dark, he can't see the clock and he coughs a few more times into his hand before climbing over Steve. His feet barely meet the floor and he pulls himself standing until the room spins and disorientation makes him sit back down on the edge of the bed, his hand landing by Steve’s thigh. “Christ—”

 

“If I survive the night with you in my bed, we'll talk, ok?” He goes lax at Steve's touch and Steve is easily able to manhandle him back to bed. If he's going to spend the night with Steve, while feeling unwell, he's going to face away from him so he's not coughing and sneezing in his face every five minutes. “Let me find some aspirin.” He finally speaks, against Bucky's shoulder, and Bucky feels the bed shift as he goes to the kitchen. He stirs when Steve sits back down and he opens his mouth when he presses the tips of his fingers against his lips. The tablets start to dissolve straightaway on his tongue and he gags at the bitter taste, his hands closing over Steve's when he brings a glass of water to his lips. He lays back down when all of the water is gone, and curls up on his side, pulling the blankets up around his shoulders. He hears Steve faintly humming an old song from their childhood and as he drifts further away from being awake, the humming becomes quieter.

 

The fever comes in the middle of the night and he's ripped from sleep and thrown onto coals; he tears off his shirt and flings the blankets off him, the only reprieve being from the window and the slight breeze that washes in and over him. His movements are enough to wake Steve, whose first instinct is to grab Bucky’s arm and stop him from climbing out of the cracked window.

 

“Buck, it’s ok, it’s ok, it’s just a fever.” His hands are cold on his arms when he guides him back so he’s sitting on the bed again. His hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat and his shirt was the same; his eyes are wide, unsure if it is night or day, or if a symptom of his illness is blindness.

 

“I’m so hot, Stevie, aren’t you hot?” His breath comes quick and he's sure he can feel his lungs full of something. Coughing hurts, his muscles angry at the continuous exertion and with each cough, he can feel the muck inside him rise.

 

“No, Buck, I’m not.” His voice is even and soothing on his tired body and mind and he uses the heel of his hand to push anything that lingers in his chest up and out, along his back. Fever still crawls under his skin, bubbling close to the surface, scalding his insides and eating him alive.

 

“Yeah, you’re like a fuckin’ ice cube.” Bucky coughs again and his body shudders as he does.

 

“Shut up.” He says softly, laying back down. Bucky’s eyes adjust to the light and when Steve pulls him down by his arm, so he’s resting with his head on Steve’s cool chest, his eyes flutter shut again. He falls asleep to Steve’s fingers gently tracing patterns along his shoulder blades and his cool skin on his cheek.

  
  


**

 

By day two he had lost his voice, by day four gained it back again. He surrendered easily, not moving to the other bedroom; instead content to stay in the larger room that doubled as Steve's room. It has the larger bed, pressed up against the wall and Bucky can watch Steve as he tries to burn the building down as he cooks, from the comfort of the bed. Their folded up winter coats are under his pillow, so he sleeps almost bolt upright, and as uncomfortable as it started off, he feels like his lungs can expand more this way. Steve still stubbornly sleeps beside him, even after the threat of getting kicked out of the bed. He hasn't sneezed or coughed more than usual, so they both take it as a victory.

 

“Eat.” He says, bringing over the bowl of soup and placing it on his lap.

 

“Are you gonna eat?” Bucky looks at the bowl, then at Steve. He knows better than to eat most things Steve prepares and in his fugue, he can't remember if he watched him cook this meal or not.

 

“You're the patient here.” Steve sighs and hands him the spoon.

 

“And you're nothin’ but skin and bones, I've got some reserves in me yet.”

 

“Eat the soup, Buck, I've got my own food.” He doesn't stop himself from rolling his eyes and he knows Bucky doesn't mean to be petulant, but he also remembers food poisoning.

 

”I don't believe you.”

 

“Fine.” Steve stands and leaves the bowl on the crate and goes into the kitchen and fills another bowl. He sits on the edge of the bed and when Bucky sits up all the way, he puts the bowl in his lap. “We'll eat the soup that _Julia from 3a_ made together.”

  
  
  


**

 

It's five days before he starts to feel human again and Steve doesn't have to coax him out of the bed to change the damp sheets. Guilt burns through him as he sits in the armchair, watching Steve stretch across the bed. Their thickest blanket is wrapped around his shoulders while he sits in just his boxers and socks, a lit cigarette between his fingers. It helps, he thinks, lets him catch a deep breath now and again; he's not coughing up as much. Sometimes the smoke burns the back of his throat but it's a cough he can swallow down. He's acutely aware of how much his body  _ aches _ , every muscle feeling worn and if Steve has to go through this every time he's unwell, he has a new respect for him. Each time he soaks the sheets in a night sweat, Steve washes him down with a washcloth dunked in cold water, and in doing so, he remembers each and every single time he's done it for him.

  
  


Nearly a week goes by and on day six, he's woken by the sound of an April shower. Bucky pulls back the curtains himself and props open the window to smoke, rather than only smoking when Steve has forced him into the chair. He's still woozy when he moves too quick, but he leans his head against the windowsill and has his arm stuck outside, fat raindrops sometimes landing on his arm. The clouds in the sky hide the sun, but he guesses it's somewhere before noon and Steve isn't in the apartment, so he must be working. There's guilt again and once he's finished smoking, he goes to the dresser and pulls a shirt on and steps in to his pants, with great effort, and makes his way down the four flights of stairs to Mrs Collins' apartment, the only apartment that has a phone, to call the yard manager and make sure he still has a job to go back to.

 

He sits on the landing of the second floor, exhausted, until Steve comes home and they walk the last of the stairs together, Bucky's arm over Steve's shoulders and Steve's arm around his waist. He promises he won't go out again.

  
  
  


**

 

Boredom burns through him, raking through him, and he's read the same three pages of his copy of _Strange Brother_ five times. The words on the page mean nothing to him and on the sixth read-through, he chucks his book towards the chair and misses. The electricity in the building is erratic and the fitting that the radio plugs into looks suspicious, so he's left with the silence of an empty apartment, nothing but his thoughts bouncing off the bare walls. He decides that they need a couch and tacks to put Steve's art up on the walls.

 

“How was work?” He asks as soon as Steve comes in and shucks off his jacket. He's still lying in their bed, on his side, wearing nothing but his boxers. His skin is still paler than Steve's but the dark circles around his eyes fade with each well nights sleep he gets, nestled beside him.

 

“You know, slow.” Steve shrugs nonchalantly and kicks off his shoes. “You're sleeping better at night, usually I come in and you're snoring by now.”

 

“I'm going crazy in here, Steve.” His voice is shaky and Steve comes over to the bed, as gentle as ever and helps him sit up. He swings his legs around to the side of the bed and grips Steve's waist to steady himself. “I'm done with bein’ sick, I just wanna go back to work and take you out.” He leans forward and wraps his arms around Steve's waist, his head resting against the soft plane of his belly.

 

“I know, you big lug, I know.” Steve's hands are small but their grip is perfect and he gently tilts Bucky's head up to face him, cradling his jaw, thumb brushing his lip. “You'll be annoying me full time again soon enough.” He has the softest of smiles, the corners of his mouth quirk up before he has the chance to say anything funny and his eyes light up so beautifully that Bucky wishes he was an artist as skilled as him.

 

“Help me, Stevie. Make me feel better again.” He sits back slightly, one hand still on Steve's waist.

 

“You're gonna get in the tub, Barnes.” Steve's tone is commanding, but he's still gentle and his hand is warm on the back of Bucky's neck when he helps keep him upright.

 

“Are you getting in?” Bucky leans into his touch and with his right hand, he rests it on Steve’s forearm, anchoring himself.

 

“Nope, I need to scrub you clean.”

 

“We're gonna fool around and you're just gonna have to clean me up again.” He says with a soft huff of a laugh.

 

“Are we?”

 

“Best cure for muscle pain is gentle exercise, right?”

 

“You gotta be feeling better if you're back talkin’ me again.”

 

“C'mon sweetheart, just be gentle with me.” He murmurs, reaching up to tug Steve down, his other hand finding the top button of his slacks and slipping his hand under the heavy cotton. The ten days since he last touched Steve feels like a lifetime, especially when days blur into one constant state of restlessness, but Steve still feels the same and he still remembers how to touch him, how he feels in his palm.

 

“Are you gonna pass out?” Steve stands between his legs; he could get used to seeing Bucky only in underwear for days on end, his arms and chest strong from the hours he puts in at the Y. He shrugs his suspenders off his shoulders and lets his slacks fall down, hips occasionally rocking forward into Bucky's warm grip, letting out a harsh gasp when Bucky goes from palming him to wrapping long fingers around his filling dick. He cups his cheek with one hand and although he looks tired, he looks _better_ ; he looks present for the first time in days.

 

“No.” Bucky blinks quickly, for a moment wondering if he was fooling himself but he shakes his head with more authority when he tries to answer again, with a clearer mind and throat. “I'm ok, Stevie, I just want you.”

 

Steve sighs, unconvinced, and with his hands on Bucky's shoulders, he gently pushes him down so he's laying on the bed again. “Scoot up."

Bucky obeys, like everything with Steve asks of him. His head rests back on the pillow and when he's comfortable, Steve pulls him over onto his side with a hand on his shoulder. He takes off his own shirt and Bucky loves to watch him coming in closer, his blue eyes scanning his entire body as if committing the sight of Bucky’s body to memory. He lays beside him, one arm under Bucky’s head, barely any space between them.

 

“You ain't gonna kiss me, are you?” He bites his lip and pulls Steve's underwear down. They're too big for him; they're probably a pair of Bucky's and they slide over his hips with no effort. There's several things about Steve's body that he likes. He likes his freckles, his slightly crooked nose that he set back in eighth grade, but as shallow as it is, he loves Steve Rogers' dick and the reactions that Bucky pulls from him while touching him. Now he’s free, stroking him lazily seems too easy and he turns his attention to the swollen head, his fingertips grasping just under the ridge and dragging upwards until they reach the tip before sliding them back down, never going past midshaft.

 

“We've come this far without me getting sick.” Steve makes a point of leaning in, his forehead resting against Bucky's. He mutters something under his breath and when Bucky's fingers tighten their grip and he twists his wrist, he pulls down Bucky's boxers too. He doesn't touch him, instead, he runs the tip of his fingers along his chest, stopping just above elbow level and rubbing his thumb soothingly over his nipple. He pushes into the touch and Steve doesn't have the best hearing in the world, but he feels the heavy exhale Bucky gives.

 

“I don't want to cough in your mouth.” He goes to turn on to his other side, facing away from Steve, but he’s stopped by Steve’s hand going from his chest to grip his hip tight. His eyes snap up to his face and as he searches his face, he uses the tip of his index and middle finger to run over the slit.

 

“Just put your head on my shoulder; you're so difficult.” Steve murmurs, shifting his arm so Bucky has not much choice other than to follow his request.

 

“Now you know what it feels like.” Bucky can't help but chuckle to himself and rests his head on his shoulder, finding the space between the pillow and Steve's golden hair. Steve tilts his head and he rests his head on Bucky's, his hand cradling the back of his head, long fingers grasping his dark hair, tugging just the smallest amount to ground them both.

 

“Keep your thighs together; if you get me off, maybe I'll go down and let you come in my mouth.” Steve says against Bucky’s neck. He spits on his hand and when Bucky lets his thighs open at his touch, he smears it along the inside of them, just below Bucky’s balls. He glances down and gently pushes Bucky’s hand away so he can guide his dick between his thick thighs. He’s joked for years about Bucky’s shape; how he carries his weight in his thighs and shoulders, leaving hardly a waist to be seen and it’s no secret of how much he likes that particular shape. The summer of ‘35 was spent in Steve’s bedroom, kissing and touching; he learned quickly how to wash his clothes away from his mother.

Bucky only nods and when he feels him between his thighs, he closes his legs and Steve doesn’t need to say anymore; he knows he’ll go untouched until Steve wants to touch him, so he grips Steve’s shoulder and leans against him heavier than he thought he could. His own cock is trapped between them and as Steve slides between his thighs, his cock brushes the underside of his balls. His smaller body is strong against his and when he holds himself flush against Bucky’s chest, only grinding his hips forward, almost pushing Bucky onto his back, he wishes he could touch him everywhere. “I changed my mind.” He gasps out against his neck.

 

“Huh?” Steve stops moving for a moment and tilts his head back so he can see his face, flushed cheeks and dark hair clinging to his forehead.

 

“I _really_ want you to kiss me.” He has to stop himself from whimpering, but with Steve, he has little need for pride. He looks desperate; he feels it. He feels dirty under the surface and he aches from head to toe, but each time he is in bed with Steve, he’s never wanted anything more than these moments, these seconds of intimacy he fears he will never be able to replace.

 

“Your timing is fuckin’ impeccable, Buck.” Before Bucky can answer him back again, he kisses him hard, the force pushing Bucky back almost fully onto his back before Steve can grab him by the hips and keep him on his side as he falls back into his rhythm, grinding forward against him. He tastes the same and as he moves, he runs his tongue over Bucky’s, desperate to swallow down both their moans. Soon, Bucky is grinding against him, too, thighs still closed and slicking up from the precum that Steve smears along his skin. He can’t get enough friction for himself and he knows that Steve is dragging it out on purpose; it isn’t the first time that they’ve played this game. When Steve feels like he can trust Bucky not to move away, he releases his grip on his hip and goes back to thumbing over his nipple, biting Bucky’s lower lip hard when he tries to pull away from the contact. “Gonna make sure that you need that bath.”

 

Steve changes his angle as he fucks his thighs, his lower body now pressing against his and Bucky almost sobs at the new contact on his own cock. He hears no sounds, the pressure in his head is still pounding and with his eyes screwed shut, he’s not sure how much time has passed. His nails are digging into Steve’s shoulders, he knows, but he teeters so precariously on the edge that when Steve’s rhythm falters and he feels wet between his legs, with his name on his lips, he’s almost disappointed. Steve’s breaths match his own, heaving and fast, and when Steve leans back, their lower halves still pressed together, he grins at how confused Bucky looks.

 

“Don’t move—” He says, freeing himself from Bucky’s grip and pushing him onto his back, and as he promised, his lips go around the head of his cock and a hand around the base. He’s tried to swallow him down all the way before, but Bucky is barely able to contain himself and he always has the fear of hurting Steve behind him. It does nothing to quell his enthusiasm though and Bucky’s sure that he grips Steve’s hair in warning that he’s about to come far too soon. He doesn’t let himself thrust up into the warm, velvety heat of Steve’s mouth, but his hands on him are perfect and he throws his arm over his eyes as he comes, the feeling ripping from the base of his spine and making him feel even more lightheaded than he was already. He’s limp under Steve, always pliant, always willing to bleed for Rogers and he doesn’t care.

He’s sure that Steve hasn’t spoken since before going down on him, so he reluctantly opens his eyes when Steve comes back up along his chest, resting his hands on either side of his head and when Bucky parts his lips to kiss him again, he tastes himself and welcomes the slick feeling of what Steve didn’t swallow, on his own tongue. It’s filthy and he’s sure that it’s a sure fire way to get Steve ill, but he doesn’t argue and he swallows down what Steve offers him.

  
  


“How are you feeling?”

 

“Just fine.” He replies dozily, turning back onto his side to face him, lips red, the flush from his cheeks and chest disappearing.

 

“God, you need a wash, I'm gonna fill the tub and then you're gonna get it, no more stalling.” He says with a certain fondness in his voice as he runs his fingers along Bucky's jaw.

 

“I should fill it up--” He goes to sit up, only to be pushed back down. He won’t argue though; he needs the wash; with each passing moment he feels worse and worse again.

 

“No, Buck, you  _ need _ to listen to me.” Steve kisses his forehead and his lips on his skin soothe him almost immediately. His eyes close and he doesn’t watch as Steve pulls his pants back on and he doesn’t listen as he starts to draw the bath.

  
  


The water is warm as Bucky lowers himself in to the tub and he lets out a long sigh when he rests his head on the edge. Steve pours one more pail in and then kneels down beside him with the bar of soap. His touch is gentle with the washcloth and he washes him the same way Bucky used to wash him, but Bucky is pliant and moves when Steve prompts. He washes his chest while Bucky's arms rest on the ledge, his eyes closed. The hair on his chest is fairer than on his head and more sparse than some of the other men he trains with, something that Steve teased him about when it first appeared. His breath hitches when Steve cleans between his legs and for a moment, he wants to push them together, to keep some of him there, but Steve's grip is stronger than his.  


 

“You need a shave.” He finally says, fingers in Bucky’s hair, massaging the lather in.

 

“I'm too tired-- tomorrow.” He pushes into his touch and although Steve has done nothing but touch him all week, testing his temperature and wiping the sweat from him, while sat in the bath, it feels like the first time he’s been touched in years.

 

“It's fine, I mean, I can do it for you.” Steve gently pulls Bucky forward so he’s sitting up away from the side of the tub and pours water over his head, rinsing out the soap from his hair, making sure that none gets in his eyes. It’s oddly intimate but nothing new.

 

“Stevie…”

 

Steve drops his pants before Bucky can argue and when he climbs into the bath and sits himself on Bucky's lap, Bucky's sure he's an angel sent from heaven. His hands immediately go to his hips, just holding him in place while he gets comfortable.

 

“I saw your pa while I was working, told him you were sick and then he came back just before closing and gave me a bag of stuff--” Steve spreads the shaving cream over Bucky's chin and cheeks, avoiding his lips. He gently pushes his head back so it's against the tub again and dips his hand in the water to rinse it. “One of these safety razors, a bag of candy, the world's smallest bottle of rum and some honey, I think your ma packed it, not him.”

 

“D'you tell ‘em I look a mess?” Bucky raises an eyebrow.

 

“I mighta said you looked a little rough around the edges, now shut up or I'll mess up.” He braces himself with his left hand, stretching the skin of his cheek with the gentlest touch as he shaves him with his right. Bucky stays silent, watching Steve, who has drawn his lower lip between his teeth and his eyebrows knitted together in concentration. The drag of the razor is calming and Steve's touch is on the right side of not being too gentle. He dips the razor into the water occasionally and Bucky is a moment away from falling asleep completely when he wipes the last of the cream from his face.

 

“You should get paid for that.” Bucky reaches up and runs his fingers over his smooth face, grinning to himself. “I got you in here now.”

 

“You're sick! I already crossed the line once today.” Steve doesn't pull away when he wraps his arms around his waist and brings him down so their chests are touching. Bucky doesn't push for anything and Steve lets himself be draped over him, thighs either side of his. “The water’s gonna get cold.”

 

“I know, sweetheart.” He turns his head and places a kiss on his cheek, running his hands along Steve’s back, feeling where his spine curves ever so slightly to the side. “Thank you for this.”

 

“You’re delirious again, I thought you were getting better.” He frees himself from Bucky’s loose grip and climbs out, trying himself off perfunctorily and pulling his pants back up. “Come out, I’ll put you back to bed.”

 

“You’re askin’ an awful lot.” He grips the side of the tub and using the last of his strength, he gets out; skin that was gray and white now a soft pink, a human color at least. He doesn’t argue when Steve wraps the towel around his shoulders and turns his back on him so he can take the tank top and shorts from under the stove, where Steve had been keeping them warm for him. They walk together to the bedroom, Steve holding his hand in his, guiding him to the bed. He dresses himself when he’s dry, his wavy hair still damp and leaves a small patch of his neckline wet, but he feels clean, loose, and loved when he crawls back into bed

 

He eats whatever Steve gives him, but most importantly, he drinks the hot honey water that Steve brings, once he's emptied some of the rum in to the mug. When he falls asleep, it's to the sound of Steve singing out of tune, with his head on Steve's chest and the taste of rum and honey on his lips. Left with only a cough, he might even make it to work in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for getting down here! This was a lot longer than I expected it, but I'm greedy and wanted all the tropes in here. Kudos/comments much appreciated, I hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for gettin' down this far, find me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/saltietangerine) and listen to me stan Bucky Barnes more than my own husband.


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